Unforgiven
by D.L. SchizoAuthoress
Summary: STORY COMPLETE. Angsty look at Fulton's messed up childhood, and his redemption, which didn't actually start with the Ducks. Warning: drug abuse, child abuse, disturbing imagery, and young teen drug use. 5/5
1. I

A/N: Man, that's it. I am giving up on reading fanfics anymore until I finish ONE of my multiparts. BennyP, lycanthrope, this is all your fault! Why do you have to be so good?! And why do Aaron Lohr and Elden Ryan Ratliff have to be so...so /suggestive/ together?? (completely random side-note, I have custom pixel-dolls of them...anyone want to see?) And why is it that I can't write anything but angst for my favorite characters?  
  
Well, enough of my buck-passing and whining I'm sure that you readers don't want to hear it. This is my strange-ass, probably pathetic version of Fulton Reed's troubled past. (You know he has the most screwed-up childhood of all the Ducks...)  
  
****  
  
"The Unforgiven"  
  
a mighty ducks fanfic by SchizoAuthoress  
  
"New blood joins this earth/  
  
And quickly he's subdued/  
  
Through constant pained disgrace/  
  
The young boy learns their rules/  
  
With time the child draws in/  
  
This whipping boy done wrong/  
  
Deprived of all his thoughts/  
  
The young man struggles on and on he's known/  
  
A vow unto his own/  
  
That never from this day/  
  
His will they'll take away."  
  
--from "The Unforgiven," Metallica  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Get in there!" The man roars, shoving the young boy into the small space of the linen closet. The boy stumbles, throwing his hands forward to halt his progress toward getting a faceful of wall.   
  
The door slams, and there is a faint, audible click of the lock being set. A woman's voice, slurred and strangely distant, sobs, over and over, "Mitch, no, please...Mitch, please..."  
  
"Stupid bitch," is the man's snarled reply. The boy in the dark closet winces at the sound of the slap he gives her, cracking like a gunshot. The woman screams, brought back to reality by pain.   
  
Their seven-year-old son presses shaking hands over his ears and tries to pretend that nothing is wrong. He's playing a game, that's all. 'Hide-and-seek. They'll never find me in here.'   
  
Why does he have to hit her? Why does she have to scream and plead and cry? And why does Fulton see it, even though his eyes are tightly shut, like it is right in front of him? His mother crawling on the floor like an animal, pale and wasted fingers grasping submissively at his father's legs as tears fall unnoticed from her dark, empty eyes.   
  
With a shriek of rage, Fulton throws himself against the door. But he is only a child, and although big for his age he is not exceptionally strong. He continues nonetheless, clawing at the door, wild with guilt from his failure to help, to protect his mother who needs him. "Mom, Mom!" He cries, his voice hitching as the tears of defeat begin to fall.   
  
'I can't even keep my mother safe. I can't stop just one bastard from hitting her.' Fulton thinks shamefully, as despair envelops him. There is laughter on the other side, strong and mocking.   
  
The father is the master of them still.  
  
*-*-*-*   
  
Fulton, age eight, looks apprehensive as he approaches onto the creaking, rickety porch sagging listlessly in front of the dented front door leading into the old house. Setting his hockey stick against the cracked railing, he surreptitiously peeks into the grimy front window. Satisfied by what he sees, he turns the knob and pushes the door open.   
  
"Mom? You here?" He calls out, in an uncertain, soft voice.   
  
There is a groan from somewhere in the house, and a woman's voice, hoarse and slurred, calls back, "Fulton, baby, that you?"  
  
Fulton brushes his longish black hair out of his face and crosses the small living room to the hallway, which is lightless and dim. "Where are you, Mom?"  
  
There is a sound like something being spilled, followed by a few choking coughs. Fulton looks into the bathroom hesitantly, knowing already what he will see.   
  
A woman with long, ratty brown hair and a softly rounded face reminiscent of Fulton's own gazes back at him, shame and sickness showing in her bloodshot brown eyes. Her clothes, cutoff jeans and a bleach-stained green tee shirt too large for her small and wasted body, are a mess; vomit is splattered all over them and the floor as well. She turns away, gropes for the grayish towel hanging from the towel-bar, and uses it to vainly attempt cleaning herself up.   
  
"Fulton, call Taylor for me." Mrs. Reed mumbles, still not looking at her son.   
  
"The phone isn't working," Fulton informs her quietly, also looking away. "Dad forgot to pay the phone company."  
  
"He's trying to kill me!" Mrs. Reed mourns, stumbling to her feet. The stench from the former contents of her stomach is strong. She flops gracelessly onto the toilet, which was where she was aiming and where she missed when the stomach cramps got severe. Tears start to run down her pasty-white cheeks as she begins to tremble and cries, "He's trying to kill me, too! Everyone's trying to kill me. Everyone..."  
  
"Taylor will know that you don't have any more of your...medicine." Fulton knows that the drugs his mother takes are not beneficial to her, but 'medicine' is what she calls it, and she might get upset if he tells her otherwise.   
  
Mrs. Reed stares at her son for a moment, a little bit of desperate hope gleaming in her destroyed gaze. "Yeah," she mutters, hugging herself, "Taylor will know, Taylor will know. Yeah...he'll know and he'll come and he'll give me more." She glances down at her wet, stinking clothes. "I should clean up before he gets here."  
  
"Okay, Mom," Fulton says.   
  
"You have homework, right?" Mrs. Reed asks, furrowing her brow as she tries to remember.   
  
"Yes." Fulton lies, to keep her happy, "I'm going to do it now, Mom."  
  
"You do that, baby."  
  
*-*-*-*  
  
A few days later, Mitch Reed storms into the house, tracking dirt all over the mustard-yellow carpet and slamming the front door hard enough to rattle every window in the tiny house. "Patty! Why ain' the damn phone workin'?"  
  
Patty Reed, clad in a thin, threadbare bathrobe and with her long hair less tangled, steps out of the kitchen and gazes vaguely at her husband. She smiles, or at least her lips twitch upward in the semblance of one. "You're back."  
  
"Yeah, yeah. I asked you, woman, why I can't call you on the fuckin' phone."  
  
"Oh..." Patty thinks for a moment. "Oh. They turned it off."  
  
"I know that, stupid." Mitch sneers at his wife, running his fingers in an irritated motion through short, thick black hair. She merely glances down at the carpet and doesn't reply. "You fucking junkie. I'll ask the boy. Least I get a straight answer out of /him/." Mitch turns and roars down the hall, "Boy! Get your ass in here!"  
  
Fulton runs into the living room. Automatically, he greets his father with, "Hello, Dad."  
  
Mitch scowls. "Why ain't the phone working, boy?"  
  
"There wasn't enough money to pay all the bills like you said. I sent in the money for the water and the lights, but it was the heating or the phone after that." Fulton looks sullen. He mumbles, "Mom ran out of 'medicine', and she gave it to Tyler instead of letting me send it in for the phone."  
  
"Don't you dare blame this on your mother!" Mitch yells. He reaches down and grabs Fulton by the shirtfront, lifting him up off the floor a few inches without visible effort. Punctuating each word by hitting the side of Fulton's head, Mitch shouts, "You know that she's sick, you selfish bastard!"  
  
It was incredibly ironic. When Mitch decides that his wife was the one to bully, he calls her a junkie. But when Fulton is being beat up, Patty Reed is an object of pity in Mitch's universe, a sick and long-suffering martyr, as if the track marks running up and down her skinny arms are from IVs and blood tests instead of heroin.  
  
"I wasn't!" Fulton yells back, struggling to free himself. As it is, the man is holding him too tightly for him to fall and soften the blows. Mitch Reed is a big man, physically overpowering for any eight-year-old. "I was just /telling/ you!"  
  
"Mitch," Patty speaks up suddenly, "please don't. Please let him go."  
  
Blue eyes spark with even greater fury. "Let him go?" Mitch repeats. At the crazed look on his face, Patty goes pale and backs away, losing all courage. Mitch glares at Fulton who, to his credit, glares right back even though he knows that his father can probably break him in two. "I'll let him go," Mitch growls, and his huge bear-paw of a right hand releases Fulton, only to land a punch on the boy's chest that sends him sprawling.   
  
Eyes shut, Fulton gasps for breath. When he feels pain and dizziness from lack of air, he panics. Maybe his ribs are broken; maybe his lung is punctured... But then air is filling his lungs again. The breath rattles in him as he desperately tries to orient himself. What he does next depends on Mitch; if he is being looked down on with scorn, Fulton is to slink off to his room. If Mitch is tugging his belt loose, Fulton usually chooses to back away and try to avoid the beating. If he can't see Mitch...  
  
Where is he?   
  
A kick to his lower back answers that question. Fulton arches away from the blow with a scream. Mitch is yelling something as he lashes out repeatedly, but it hurts so much that Fulton can't hear him through the pain and doesn't care. The world goes fuzzy and gray, darkening to black, and Fulton slips into blessed oblivion.  
  
To be continued.... 


	2. II

A/N: Why is it that I can't write anything but angst for my favorite characters? Ah, but we only hurt the ones we love, yanno. This will probably be somewhat unsatisfactory, especially if you've read anything by Star, Victory Thru Tears, lycanthrope, or BennyP. I'm just not as good as they are, and my style is different.   
  
That said, do enjoy the story, and please R&R.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"The Unforgiven"  
  
a mighty ducks fanfic by SchizoAuthoress  
  
Fulton wakes up in near-total darkness, a faint sliver of light touching his face as he lies on the floor. He groans, recognizing the place as the tiny linen closet across from his parents' bedroom. The first few times, he pounded on the door and rattled the knob, begging to be let out; now, he simply curls up on his mostly unhurt left side and checks the extent of the damage inflicted upon his body.   
  
His chest hurts, his back hurts. Fulton's fingers ghost over the sore flesh of the latter, and he winces at even this slight contact. The bruise there will obviously be worse. Fulton feels his eyes stinging with unshed tears and, by sheer stubborness and will, forces them /not/ to fall. He comforts himself with the fact that it is Tuesday and his mom will let him out to go to school tomorrow. School, despite being, as far as Fulton can tell, completely pointless, means freedom. It means a few hours away from his father, and for that the boy is thankful.  
  
*-*-*-*  
  
It is the last time that he ever sees his heroin-addict mother, or his abusive alcoholic trucker father. Mrs. Bishop, the playground supervisor, pats Fulton on the back when they exchange greetings that morning. Mrs. Bishop sees Fulton's look of pain and feels the boy flinch away from the casual, gentle touch.   
  
She takes him to the nurse, who lifts up his shirt to examine him and gasps in shock at what she sees. The principal, the vice principal, and a counselor are brought in. At first, Fulton is silent, unwilling to let anyone know what his father does lest they think him weak.   
  
But finally, reluctantly, he admits after an hour and a half, "Dad knocks me around sometimes."  
  
"When?" Mr. Gladstone, the counselor, asks intently.   
  
Fulton shrugs. "When he feels like it, I guess."  
  
"What does he do?"  
  
"He hits me," Fulton says, trying to close the circle of conversation. When he sees that this doesn't satisfy them, he goes into a litany of offenses, fully intending to shock them as payback for making him talk. "Slaps me, whips me with a belt, pulls at my hair, pushes me, smacks me with some of his tools, punches me, kicks me, locks me in the closet."  
  
It works. Mrs. Bishop has her mouth hanging open in surprise, and the nurse is almost in tears from commiseration.  
  
"One summer," Fulton informs them with perfect seriousness, "I was in the closet for a week. Mom let me out to go to the bathroom, but she only could when he was passed-out drunk."  
  
*-*-*-*  
  
They use that anecdote among numerous articles of evidence toward abuse and neglect in the hearing to revoke the Reeds' parental rights to Fulton. Again, the shock-value of the tale works well, and the judge declares Fulton Garrett Reed a ward of the state until the age of eighteen.   
  
This is how Fulton ends up standing outside of a foster home in St. Paul, a black backpack full of clothes slung over one shoulder and his beloved hockey stick in his hand. A social worker hovers nearby, espousing the virtues of the charitable couple who has agreed to take in such a poor, scared, abused little boy. They think that Fulton will mesh easily with the other foster children they have taken in.  
  
They have no idea what they are in for.   
  
*-*-*-*  
  
A mere two months after arriving at the Gilmore household--a time which Fulton filled with shrieking matches, sulking, random destruction, and extremely violent tendecies expressed toward the other kids in the house--Fulton was relocated. He stayed with the Marshes for five months, with the McLeans for four, the Wilsons for six months, and Nick Escobar only put up with him for five /days/. That's his record, and he's proud of it.   
  
Almost a year and a half of being a ward of the state began to take its toll. Fulton no longer spoke unless spoken to by an adult, or someone significantly older than himself. His sulking became prolonged and deep. He no longer destroyed the property of his foster parents, but only because he learned that such behavior will only lead to packing your clothes back up and going to /another/ foster home. Vandalism and graffiti in black Sharpie marked his trail in the towns he frequented. Wherever Fulton ended up, he quickly established himself as one of the toughest and scariest kids in the school, even though he usually skipped class to hang out with wasters from the local junior high.   
  
*-*-*-*  
  
A skeletally thin hand waves in front of Fulton's dark, fathomless gaze, scattering the sweet, hazy smoke. Fulton does not blink. The hoarse, insistent voice of a girl calls in an annoying sing-song, "Ki-id, hey, /ki/-id!"  
  
"Don' bother him," Another voice reprimands.   
  
Ignoring them both, Fulton takes another hit. The second voice, which belongs to an older redheaded boy, continues obliviously,  
  
"He's cool. Just leave him alone." The boy accepts the joint that Fulton offers and falls silent as well.   
  
The girl looks incredelous. "Kid, how old are you? Huh? Twelve, thirteen?"  
  
Fulton stares back at her. "Ten," he answers simply.  
  
"/Leave/ him /alone,/ Haley." The redhead insists again, and Haley listens this time.  
  
To be continued... 


	3. III

A/N: For the ever-encouraging Katie, I give you "The Unforgiven III," which, due to her feedback and suggestions, has been largely rewritten into what I think is a superior chapter. Much love, lycanthrope!  
  
Please R&R. (Oh yeah, no time lapse between chapters II and III.)  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"The Unforgiven"  
  
a mighty ducks fanfic by SchizoAuthoress  
  
"Stillwater is a sinkhole," Jason declared, shaking the sodden red bangs out of his haggard, freckled face. For some reason, probably the cannabis molecules pinballing through her lungs, Haley found this statement to be incredibly profound. Her eyes opened and she stared in heavy-lidded wonder at the lanky eighth-grader, giving a slight cough as she exhaled.   
  
"Whoa, man..." Haley murmured, cocking her head to the left, as if this new angle would better help her understand the Zen-like importance of Jason's words.   
  
It was a rainy autumn Saturday in Stillwater, Minnesota, and the old stoner's shed behind the junior high was being put to good use by the three fledgling drug-users. There was Jason Mierrs, the oldest of the group at age fourteen and a half, a tall redhead with an unfortunate collection of freckles all over his thin, muscular body. Haley Shale was thirteen, an extremely pale and frightfully skinny seventh-grader with an obsession for hair dye--a natural blonde, she was currently sporting long black locks with a hot-pink-and-purple splotch where the roots at the top of her head were. At ten, Fulton Reed was the youngest, although his size and bulkiness made him appear older than that. They were waiting for a promised 'present' courtesy of Andy Harris, Jason's older friend in high school, and killing the time--not to mention a few braincells--with some weed.   
  
Fulton sighed and let his body fall sideways, resting his head on his extended arm as he watched his companions. He was drawn, inexplicably, to Haley's eyes and Jason's hands. Haley's eyes were translucently blue, vacant and chilling as ice, with the aged yellow look of jaundice to them. Her eyes looked sick, and she was sick. The sickness clung to her like a cobweb, an unknown something eating away at her so inexorably that she had decided to destroy herself before it could. Thwart its purpose, in a way.   
  
Haley was sick, but no one who could have helped her cared. She was a child of poverty; her parents couldn't afford twice-yearly dental exams, much less the huge medical bills that would follow a diagnosis. The Shales went without insurance of any kind and had to let their daughter slowly die. Fulton wondered briefly if she was ever in pain, and then his thoughts raced on to Jason.   
  
Jason's hands told the world that /he/ was in pain. Thin, pinkish razor marks paraded down his forearms to hands with safety-pin scars and cigarette burns decorating his square palms and long, sharp-nailed fingers. The round little burns had come from his mother, the scars from his own hand. Jason had been a kind of 'whipping boy' in his old house; everything that had gone wrong was blamed on "The Boy," and his mother took a sort of psychotic delight in inventing torturous punishments for his imagined transgressions. Jason had run away from home and now lived out of the various homeless shelters around Minneapolis. It was this past, a past mirrored in some aspects by Fulton's own, that had made him extend a hand in friendship toward the silent, sullen little boy.   
  
The door rattled slightly with a gentle tapping on its surface. Jason looked toward it and smiled, saying slowly, "Andy's here." He lurched to his feet and peeked through the gap between the door and the wall, just to confirm, and drew back the bolt.   
  
Andy came in stomping, cursing the weather and cursing the world, his loud and sudden appearance jolting Fulton and Haley--who had been slumping forward for about half a minute--fully upright again. The teen stripped off his soaking-wet brown jacket, flinging it in the corner.   
  
Andy Harris was a short seventeen-year-old with a mop of wild-looking, unwashed light brown curls, green sunglasses hiding hazel eyes, and piercings all over. He sat down, crossing his ankles and resting his palms on his knees. He mumbled, "Howya doin'?"  
  
"Okay," Jason answered, sitting beside his friend.  
  
Haley rolled her eyes and didn't respond. Fulton shrugged.   
  
"Oh," Jason said, "That's Fulton. He's new."  
  
Andy nodded distractedly, reaching into his shirt and pulling out a plastic baggie. Colorful little half-inch squares filled it. Fulton leaned forward, recognizing the Pink Elephants from that stupid Disney movie that the Wilson kids had seemed to like so much. [1]  
  
"The hell is it?" He demanded, watching with interest as Andy dried his hands on the black tee under his plaid flannel shirt and extracted one of the tiny pictures.   
  
"Acid," the teen answered, carefully seperating the picture into the four hits it contained. Passing them out, he instructed, "Put it on your tongue. It'll take about an hour."  
  
Haley grinned. "Awesome. You rule, Andy."  
  
*-*-*-*  
  
Fulton retreated into a corner, watching with confusion the reactions of the others. Jason was babbling about seeing people dancing in the wood-grain of the walls. Haley had her eyes closed, lying on her back and rubbing her eyes, giggling about something she could see there. Andy was waving his hands in time to the music he'd brought along, transfixed by the motions and the sounds.   
  
The pounding bass was mutating into footsteps, loud and heavy and angry. Fulton whimpered, overwhelmed by the sudden paranoid feeling that his father was coming. The feeling that he needed to vomit was strong. It felt like forever until the footsteps retreated and the fear went away with them.   
  
The room started to spin crazily, as though it were set on multiple axes. Fulton collapsed to the floor, holding the rug in a death-grip. Haley crawled over to him, face haloed in orange, grinning like some insane specter. He looked into her eyes and felt like he was drowning in sadness. She was going to die, the only time she wasn't in pain was when she was tripping, and she didn't even know what was hurting her so badly.   
  
"Do you see all the shapes?" She asked intently.   
  
"What do you see?" Fulton whispered back.   
  
Haley giggled again. "They're not real, but you can see these floating shapes everywhere...donuts and fireworks and these funny 3D crystal things, too."  
  
"I just see these really bright flashes," Fulton replied. He was still staring into those ice-blue eyes when they suddenly intensified like lasers in a face that was whiter than pure white. Haley began to cry.   
  
"Why do I feel so sad?" she sobbed, and Fulton wondered too.  
  
To be continued...  
  
[1] This is an actual blotter-design, a picture of which can be found here:  
  
http://www.erowid.org/chemicals/lsd/lsd_images3.shtml   
  
under the title of "Pink Elephants." It's gorgeous. 


	4. IV

A/N: Okay, Wolfie. ::chains self to computer chair:: Just give me drugs, water, food, and periodic bathroom breaks and I'll be just fine doing nothing but writing for you! Two nights of Fulton-dreams?? I'm jealous as hell! ...But I guess it fair, since I get to spend 3/4 of my day thinking about Fulton. ^_^   
  
I'm making this into more of a prequel to "Might as Well." I know, they're total spectral opposites in tone, and there are a few vague sort of plotholes, but I'll fix it up and make it make sense. Trust me....::looks ominious::   
  
I apologize for making you all wait for this chapter; it's just that I haven't had computer access for a few days, since I was spending it at my uncle's house instead of my aunt's.  
  
****  
  
"Unforgiven IV"  
  
Fulton didn't even bother to hide the boredom-induced yawn from the teacher as he let his head plop onto his folded arms. He heard the woman sigh, and she said nastily, "Fulton Reed, do you want to repeat fourth grade again, or will you pay attention to the lesson?"  
  
"Third time's the charm," Fulton shot back, his voice muffled.   
  
Because Fulton had spent a lot of time relocating during his first try at fourth grade (when he was nine), the school system thought that he couldn't possibly be at the same level as his peers, so he was in fourth grade again at age ten. If it was possible, he was even more sick of the pointless little drama known as public school than before. He knew the lessons they were teaching like the back of his hand, not because he'd been through the level once before, but because he was really quite advanced for his age. Had he ever bothered to show real effort in the work, he would have had top grades every year, but because he had stumbled onto the truth of the matter early in life, he didn't.   
  
The truth was, school was nothing. There was no way that a truly intelligent child /won't/ find a way to get out of school; some simply take different paths than others, but for the most part they end up content with their lives. And those stupid children who don't understand what they are being taught, those who lie and cheat their way through school find out later that they really weren't all that smart. They end up miserable because they have deluded themselves into believing too many lies, some, sadly, of their own making.  
  
Fulton hadn't yet grasped all the suble nuances of the truth, but he knew the basic outline of it. He knew about kids who cheated on tests and passed; he, by contrast, understood the material but gave mostly smart-ass answers and ended up with C minuses. It didn't matter to him.  
  
*-*-*-*  
  
Fulton drinks straight from his carton of chocolate milk to wash down the apple he just ate, having thrown out the disgusting burger which came with the free lunch he gets every day. The other kids avoid him as they see him coming.   
  
'People are afraid of me, but they don't know me. Would they still be scared if they knew about my dad beating me up, or would they make fun of me?' Fulton leans against the rusty fence and stares at a group of kids chatting by the monkey bars. Two are white, one with light brown hair, the other with glasses and a bandanna. The other two are black and look like brothers. They see him looking and shift uncomfortably, turning their backs on him. Fulton sighs.   
  
"Here piggy! Here piggy!"  
  
Fulton gazes off in the direction of the shout. A short, chubby boy is running as fast as he can away from some bigger, stronger sixth graders. Other fourth graders are yelling, "Run, Karp, run!"  
  
'Who cares?' Fulton wonders, spitting on the ground. 'Nobody ever cares about me, why should I care about anyone else?'  
  
*-*-*-*  
  
The house Fulton walks to after school is a trashy duplex with green '79 Plymouth Volare on cinderblocks in the front yard. He goes to the door on the left side and unlocks it with his key. Throwing his black bookbag on the dirty carpet, he yells,   
  
"I'm home!"  
  
"Fulton?" A female voice yells back, from the kitchen.   
  
"Yeah!"  
  
"Get your butt in here, kid, I'm makin' cookies!"  
  
Fulton laughs mockingly. "You mean, you're trying to kill us again, Feebs," he says, poking his head into the kitchen, which looks like a disaster zone. A tall girl--with gold-brown skin, hazel eyes, and frizzy black hair tamed and spiked with Vaseline--clad all in flour-daubed black glares at him, holding a wooden spoon in a threatening manner. The effect is ruined, really, by the lumpy cookie dough dripping off the spoon and splatting on her right boot.   
  
At fifteen, Phoebe de Los Fuegos is the oldest of the four foster children living here, in the home of Kyle and Lorraine Green. The Greens are on welfare, both work two jobs, and they mostly take in foster kids for the money--$4848 per child--that they are paid. Not to say that they are bad parents, exactly. More like absentee parents than anything.   
  
For an hour, Phoebe and Fulton attempt to salvage her attempts at cooking, but Fulton gives up when Phoebe loses her temper and throws a mixing bowl at the pantry door. The garbage disposal is still gurgling down the remaining dough when the doorbells rings repeatedly and someone starts banging on the door.   
  
The two older children exchange a look and groan simultaneously, "The twins..."  
  
Phoebe grabs a rolling pin, and Fulton takes the wooden spoon. Then, the teenager sneaks out into the living room, followed by the boy. She slinks over to the door and slides the deadbolt unlocked, jumping back with her wooden weapon held at ready.   
  
There are screams as twin boys run into the house, backpacks held over their heads to counteract Phoebe's attempts to knock them senseless. Fulton sees his chance and bolts for the bathroom.   
  
Alan and Chad Turning are two hyperactive little eight-year-olds who make life at the Greens' a hell for both Fulton and Phoebe. The only time it is quiet in the house anymore is when Alan and Chad are not there, or when the two of them are sleeping. Right now, Phoebe is shrieking, "Fucking little spastic bastards, get the hell over here!" A crash, and then the howled, "Fuck you!"  
  
Suddenly, the bathroom door bursts open, the doorknob going into the gaping hole in the wall--created in the first five minutes that the twins arrived a few months ago. Fulton roars, "Get the hell out! Have you never heard of privacy before?!"  
  
*-*-*-*  
  
"Hey, guys," Jason greets Fulton and Haley, sitting across from them on the floor of the stoners' shed. The girl scrutinizes Jason's appearance, taking in his large hiking backpack, sleeping bag, and plastic grocery bag full of canned food. Her dull blue eyes are suspicious, but she says nothing.   
  
Fulton asks softly, "Are you leaving?"  
  
Jason nods. "I figured I ought tell you guys."  
  
"Where you gonna go?" Haley whispers, pushing her long black hair out of her face. Jason shrugs and replies,   
  
"Dunno. Canada, I guess. Or maybe just over the St. Croix into Wisconsin first, whatever." He rummages through his ugly heavy brown jacket and withdraws a plastic baggie of weed. Dropping it into Haley's hands, he mutters, "You guys enjoy." Halwy squeals with delight and pulls some zigzag paper out of her shirt pocket.  
  
"Lovely parting gift, Jay." Fulton says dryly. He shifts his weight so that his one hand supports it. "You look all guilty, dude."  
  
With another shrugs, Jason replies, "Well, I know for a fact that I'm going to hell..."  
  
"Bullshit," Fulton snaps. Haley snickers, looking up briefly from her task of rolling a joint. Fulton continues, "Why would you go to hell? You're not bad; I mean, you're not good, but you're not /bad/ either. It's not like you /killed/ someone."  
  
Upon seeing the painfully guilty look on Jason's face, Haley gasps, "You didn't!"  
  
"No!" Jason shouts, scandalized. He rolls his eyes and grumbles, "Look at it this way. I gave acid to a dying girl and a ten-year-old boy...if that isn't a ticket on the handbasket to hell, what is?"  
  
"Oh, fuck, you decided to get all moral on us," Haley groans.  
  
Fulton sneers at him, "Whatcha gonna do in Wisconsin, then, Jay? Screw nineteen-year-old crackwhores instead?" Jason flips him off, scowling. Haley intercedes, holding out the now-lighted joint.   
  
"Going-away gift," she mumbles, "Peace pipe."  
  
"What?" Jason demands, taking a hit. Haley smiles in a hazy, vague sort of way.   
  
"Bad karma for you to leave us unhappy."  
  
"I'll toke to that," Fulton deadpans.  
  
*-*-*-*  
  
A few hours later, Fulton trekked over to his alley, hockey stick under one arm, a couple of pucks cradled in his other. Dropping the equipment on the cracked pavement, he found the old black steamer trunk he usually practices with and set it up near the main road.   
  
He took a deep breath of the cold air as he adjusted his grip on the stick, ignoring the sounds of TVs from within the buildings on either side, ignoring the buzz of traffic in front of him. He swung back, feeling anticipation coiling in his stomach, hot and bright, like a lightbulb filament. As the wooden face of the stick made contact with the rubber side of the puck, he felt the familiar thrill of release, joyous to sense the power of his body and his arms channeled through the hockey stick--an extension of himself--and making the puck soar...  
  
Only to bounce off the lid of the trunk.   
  
That was no matter; Fulton was serene. At least it hadn't gone flying into the street and broken a car window. He'd done that twice, and had no desire to repeat the experiences. The second shot missed as well. The third made it in. The fourth didn't. The fifth, well...  
  
The fifth shot missed completely, hitting a pedestrian unfortunate enough to be in the line of fire. Fulton swore under his breath and turned to run for the fence behind him.   
  
"Fuck! You little punk, watch where...Fulton?"  
  
Fulton breathed again. "Jason. Dude, sorry about that."  
  
Jason bent down and picked up the puck, absently rubbing where it had hit him. He would most likely have a bruise right below his ribcage tomorrow. Tossing the puck in the air and catching it, he waved it back and forth as he held it out to Fulton. "Wouldn't it be smarter to shoot toward the /back/ of the alley?"  
  
Dutifully, Fulton positioned himself to face the back of the alley, lining up the shot with his last puck. He fired it with all his might, and watched with disinterest as it smacked into a metal trashcan, bouncing off and leaving a huge dent. The thing hit a fire escape next, ricocheted, and skidded along the ground until Fulton put out a booted foot to halt its path.   
  
"No," he said simply.   
  
Jason shook his head, marvelling at the craziness of his young friend. As he walked away, probably for good, Fulton distinctly heard him mumbling, "And the sonofabitch don't even know how to skate..."  
  
~~To be continued...~~ 


	5. V

A/N:The final chapter! But don't be sad, "Might as Well" is shaping up to be lovely, and the sequel to THAT is in the works. Have I been too vague and rant-y? Well, okay, here: This is the list of Mighty Ducks fics (mostly Bash-centric) that I am/have been/hope to be writing.  
  
(The) Unforgiven-- Might as Well-- [working title] Combat Boots and Clover-- Old Friends, New Troubles  
  
Sorry that this chapter is like, terribly long. There's lots of dialogue, and I needed to cover a whole shitload of stuff. And sorry if I don't get the scene at the end exactly right, it's been a few weeks since I saw D1.  
  
---------------------Feedback------------------------  
  
Solis  
  
::shrieks:: Cookie! ::jumps Soli:: Hey, you thought I'd use the short chains? How're you treating my Fulton-clone? Better be good! Don't worry about not reading this one until now, I'm a review-whore, so every single nice one makes me very happy.  
  
Wolfie  
  
Terminal velocity? NEVER! Bwahahahaha...you doubt the limits of Schizzie-power? ::looks ominous:: I'm trying to keep updating, but my family keeps making me be social...  
  
****  
  
"The Unforgiven V"  
  
Haley had said to him many times, 'I'm dying,' but she said it once more as he walked with her to her apartment that spring. She said, in a low voice that already sounded dead, "I'm dying, you know."  
  
Fulton nodded. Everyone knew.   
  
Haley sighed heavily, hugging herself with her thin arms and clutching, birdlike hands. And after a moment of silence continued, "I wish I wasn't, just because Momma's always crying...and Daddy don' even look at me no more. Like, if he did, he'd cry too, an' he don't wanna cry."  
  
"People think you're weak if you cry." Fulton informed her solemnly. Haley nodded, looking even more birdlike with the movement.   
  
"Is it weak, though?"  
  
"Dad always said..." Fulton trailed off, realizing what he had been about to say and not wanting to say it. Haley, however, turned her huge blue eyes upon him and asked in her hoarse, low voice,   
  
"You never talk about your real daddy. What'd he say, Fulton?"  
  
Fulton avoided her gaze--it held death in its depths--and mumbled, "Nothin' important. Just..." Swallowing hard, Fulton asked, "Promise you won't...laugh?"  
  
Haley shook her head. "I won't. Is it...his fault that you're in foster care?"  
  
"Yeah...him an' my mom. Anyway, he always said, 'Don't you cry, boy, don't you ever let me see you crying!' And if I did, he'd beat me even worse." Fulton took a deep, steadying breath. "'Men don't cry, boys don't cry. You ever see me cry, boy?' And I didn't. It was only my mom, when she got hit."  
  
Haley sat down on the curb, tugging at Fulton's jacket for him to do the same. Fulton sat, trembling, and Haley hugged him weakly. Something in him broke with that gentle, comforting gesture, and the words went pouring from him, laced with hate and pain and it was like Mitch was saying them to him all over again in his head.  
  
"'It's all your fault she's like this, boy, all your fault. If you hadn't come along and /ruined/ my life...' He said that when my mom overdosed once. And then...he'd say that he hated me and I should just die...I was so stupid I was a waste of space...shit like that. But I, you know, started to believe it, a little I guess, because you can only hear the same lies so many times before it starts to sound true." Fulton bit the inside of his mouth, hard, to keep the tears down. "I saw my mom shooting up drugs a lot. She'd have a belt around her arm and a syringe in her hand...always the same fucking needle, I swear. Probably shared it."  
  
"Do you ever hear from them?"  
  
"They're allowed to send me letters. They never do."  
  
*-*-*-*  
  
Fulton muttered, turning away from the light out in the hall. "G'way..." Fulton grunted, hiding his head under his pillow.   
  
Phoebe looked annoyed. Shoving at the boy's shoulder, she snapped, "Get up, you lazy bastard."  
  
With a snort, Fulton put his head up and, blinking painfully, hissed, "What? Feebs?"  
  
"C'mon. Shawn's here." The teen shook the short canister she held; it rattled in a familiar way. "Get up an' help us paint the town red."  
  
Fulton sat up. "What'd you say?"  
  
In the dark, he couldn't see Phoebe's face, but he could tell by her tone that she was grinning. "That new building downtown needs a new paintjob."  
  
"I'm in," Fulton declared, swinging his legs off the bed. Phoebe laughed,  
  
"See you out back, kid."  
  
*-*-*-*  
  
Two hours later, Fulton cornered his foster sister in the front yard. "You fucking bitch!" He snarled, giving her a hard shove.   
  
Phoebe stumbled back, regaining her footing and taking a swing at the boy's head. "What the hell is your problem, kid?" The blow didn't land, and she pulled the leather strap off her neck, holding it like a short whip.  
  
"You ditched me!" Fulton raged, "You saw the heat coming and you ditched me, you bitch!"  
  
"Idiot!" Phoebe retorted. She swatted him on the head with her collar. "If I got caught again, I'd be off to prison 'cause I'm a repeat offender. Prison, not juvenile hall. You, the worst you'd get is juvie, man."  
  
Fulton stepped back, folding his arms over his chest and simply staring at the girl before him. Yesterday, he would have loved to be just like her. She was cool, collected, unaffected, and completely psychotic. She didn't give a damn about what anyone thought. She was his sister, a person that he thought cared about him.   
  
At first glance, there was no way that anyone would think of them as siblings. Fulton Reed was a heavy-set, pale boy with long, greasy black hair and brooding black eyes. Phoebe de los Fuegos was tall, slim, and only slightly plump; her cold hazel eyes were set slanted in gold-tinged brown skin, and her black hair--crinkly when not slathered with gel or paste--had natural pale brown highlights in it. Half Hispanic, a quarter Korean, an eighth black, and an eighth caucasian, Phoebe was a mutt and it showed.   
  
Phoebe saw the hurt in Fulton's eyes as he stood in the harsh glow of the streetlamp. Her expression softened. "Look, kid, I was just looking out for myself. I forgot that I need to look out for you sometimes, too...I ain't never had a little brother that I /liked/ before, yanno?"   
  
"I guess," Fulton said grudgingly. Phoebe laughed and slung an arm around Fulton's shoulders.   
  
"You're the best, Fulton, you really are."  
  
"Am I the best enough for you to consider shelling out five bucks to help me get a lip ring?"  
  
"You're not that much the best, kid."  
  
"Will you quit with that 'kid' bullshit?" Fulton demanded. Phoebe only laughed and didn't answer.  
  
*-*-*-*  
  
The year passed uneventfully. Fulton began the fifth grade as just the big quiet kid in the back of the room, menacing somehow in his simple presence. Rumors started to fly that he was a football player, that he'd been scouted by private high schools and universities. He ignored them and immersed himself in books by Brian Jacques. He had already read "Redwall," "Mossflower," "Mattimeo," and "Mariel of Redwall." Phoebe had given him five dollars, not for a lip ring, but to help him buy a hardback edition of the new Jacques book "Salamandastron." He never brought the books to school, and kept them hidden in a box on his closet shelf, so that Alan and Chad wouldn't find them.   
  
Jason never came back, although he did send Haley a postcard from some little town in Ottowa, Canada. Some rich widow got an attack of conscience and, upon seeing Haley walking home from school one day, offered to help. Haley was sent away to the hospital, where they told her family that she was suffering from cancer stemming from a hepatitis C infection.   
  
*-*-*-*  
  
Fulton shifts his weight uncomfortably, waiting to be noticed by the head nurse. When she finally beckons him over, he asks, "Could you tell me where Haley Shale's room is?"   
  
Snapping her gum, the nurse consults her list of patients. "Room 814," she answers, her breath scented with bubble gum. Fulton nods in acknowledgement and walks in quiet contemplation down the antiseptic hallway to Room 814.   
  
"Fulton!" Haley exclaims as he stops in the doorway, suddenly uncertain. "Come in, come in..."  
  
Haley no longer looks like herself. Her hair is blond, wispy and almost white, falling out because of the intense chemotherapy the doctors inflict upon her. Her skin is becoming transparent; blue veins branch palely at her thin wrists, throbbing with the tremendous effort of keeping her alive. Tubes and wires chain her to numerous machines monitoring her condition, and an IV line drips colorless liquid into her colorless flesh.   
  
A blond woman wearing a shapeless peach-colored dress and shabby brown slippers sits beside the bed, dabbing ceaselessly at her weeping blue eyes. Fulton looks at her, thinking for a moment that this might be an older Haley. Mrs. Shale realizes that he is looking, and she smiles tremulously in welcome.   
  
"Momma? Why don't you go down to the cafeteria?" Haley looks worried. "You haven't eaten breakfast yet. Fulton can keep me company."  
  
Mrs. Shale nods and rises to leave. "So nice of you to visit," she whispers as she passes Fulton, her head down and eyes averted.   
  
"I'm dying," Haley says matter-of-factly.   
  
Fulton suddenly thinks of his father, poisoning himself with liquid bliss poured from a bottle. Of his mother, shooting heroin and speed in the bathroom and throwing up all over herself later. Of his 'sister' Phoebe, throwing herself at every boy who showed the vaguest interest in her. Of Jason, pursued by useless guilt into the missing persons file. Of himself, bleeding on the linoleum after one of his father's rages.   
  
"We all are," he responds, "somehow."  
  
Haley nods. "Yes."  
  
"Does it hurt?" Fulton inquires intently, taking a seat in the chair beside Haley's bed. "Does dying hurt?"  
  
Haley retorts, "Does living hurt?" They are both silent, and then Haley sighs. "Not anymore. They keep me so drugged that I can't feel anything."  
  
"I feel like that sometimes." Fulton states. At Haley's curious, encouraging expression, he elaborates, "Like I can't feel anything. Like nothing matters. I see little kids get beat up in the schoolyard and I can't care."  
  
"You should. Care, I mean. You can protect them."  
  
"I couldn't protect my mother. I can't protect anyone." Fulton mumbles to his hands, unable to meet Haley's pale, knowing gaze.  
  
"Listen," Haley says. "If you can, after I die...would you keep visiting me?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
Haley looks desperate. "Promise. Swear that you'll visit."  
  
"I will, I swear." Fulton answers.   
  
Haley takes a deep breath. "Momma won't, Daddy won't. It'll make them too sad. And they'll start over with some other kid, have a baby and forget about me." Suddenly, she smiles deviously. "Promise me something else."  
  
"What?" Fulton asks apprehensively. Haley reaches out and pats his hand.   
  
"You don't have to. But I was hearing about how some people have roses planted on their graves. Now, I don't care too much for roses, or any other kind of flowery plant."  
  
"God, you're gonna make me plant pot on your grave, aren't you?" Fulton demands.   
  
"Got it in one. But only if you can. If it's not too much hassle."  
  
Fulton grudgingly promised that he would try. Mrs. Shale came back with a tray that only had three plates of different-flavored Jello on it. The two children talked for a little while longer, and then Fulton left.   
  
*-*-*-*  
  
Fulton headed over to the pond one day after it had frozen over that winter, drawn there by some inexplicable urge to observe something other than a printed page. The only people there were a bunch of shrimpy fourth and fifth graders, falling all over each other, and some old man shrieking abuse at them. The District Five peewee hockey team.   
  
He sat on a bench and stared at them, following each one in turn until they tumbled to the ice. Then he would select a new person and trace their movements with his dark gaze. Once, one of the black boys caught him looking, and he smiled tenatively, only to be scolded by his older brother, who shot Fulton a look of scorn. Terry and Jesse Hall, Fulton remembered, as he watched them skate off side by side.   
  
Every so often after that, he'd wander by the pond, just to see if the team was practicing that day. He began to think of them as /his/ team, even though he wasn't really a part of them, even though he never would be because he couldn't skate and couldn't learn how. He chased off bullies tormenting Averman and beat up a sixth grader who took Peter Mark's lunch money. After defending them, he broadened his scope to threatening anyone who would bully the smaller, more defenseless kids.   
  
During this time, Haley died, quietly. She passed away in her sleep and buried on a Thursday. Fulton attended the funeral and did not cry, laid a few plastic daisies--the only bouquet that he could afford on such short notice, not that Haley would have cared--on the coffin, and was driven home by Phoebe.  
  
He was there when the old coach had a heart attack; he ran to a pay phone and called 911 while the others panicked, but no one ever found out. The man survived but swore never to coach again, leaving District Five to its own devices.   
  
*-*-*-*  
  
"Fulton, man, you're too tall to be using this little kid hockey stick anymore." Phoebe said, turning over said piece of sports equipment in her hands. Fulton made a noise to indicate that he'd heard her, but his face remained hidden by "Salamandastron" and he did not answer.  
  
Phoebe sighed. The house had been much quieter since the Terrible Twins had been relocated--to a foster couple with no other children--two weeks prior. Fulton had moved out of the big room he and Phoebe had shared, taking over the twin's room for himself. He'd already painted the walls black with an old can of paint he found in Kyle Green's toolshed in the backyard. (Lorraine had come home and actually praised him for being creative...but then, the children had always suspected that she had been a flower-child liberal.)   
  
"I got some money. I can get you a new hockey stick if you want," Phoebe suggested.   
  
"Okay," Fulton replied softly. "Thank you."  
  
"Consider it your early Christmas present. The book was like your birthday present, anyway."  
  
*-*-*-*  
  
Fulton walked into the sports shop, answering Hans's "Good afternoon" with a nod. He had often come into the shop to buy more hockey pucks, since despite his best efforts, he often lost a few. Hands in his pockets, he wandered the aisles idly, not yet heading over to the display of hockey sticks. He liked coming here. There was something about it...  
  
'It feels friendly,' Fulton realized. 'Safe.'  
  
Fulton found himself at the display shelf for the ice skates. It was silly, really. Phoebe giving him money was the only reason he had enough to even buy himself a new hockey stick. There was no way that he could ever save up enough to buy skates, and he had no one to teach him how to use the things. But he still admired the soft sheen of the leather, the smell of polish, and the diamond-like gleam of the blades.   
  
Somehow, the shop had filled up without his noticing. He looked up and recognized the D5 team--his team. And their new coach, some short guy with brown hair and an uptight attitude. There was a huge clattering, and Fulton's attention was pulled to his eventual destination, the aisle with hockey sticks. Charlie Conway was standing beside the jumbled mess of sticks that had been in neat order only a minute before, attempting to look innocent. Fulton headed over.  
  
"Looking for something?" He asked. Charlie jumped. When he saw Fulton standing behind him, he smiled nervously.   
  
"Um, yeah. Coach Bombay is buying us new equipment." Charlie headed over to another display, and Fulton trailed him. The smaller boy pointed to a hockey stick in it. "Think that's the right size for me?"  
  
Fulton looked at it. "Sure." He pulled the thing loose and handed it to Charlie.  
  
"Thanks, Fulton."  
  
*-*-*-*  
  
Fulton was back in his alley, setting up the steamer trunk again, because the new hockey stick /needed/ to be broken in, didn't it? The first attempt had the puck flying out of the alley.   
  
There was the familiar sound of shattered glass. 'Oh, /fuck/.' Fulton thought, staring in shock at the damage he'd caused to the front side window of a van. 'This damn thing is unlucky.'  
  
"Hey!" Someone had jumped out of the passenger side of the van. Fulton recognized the new coach, Bombay, and decided to make a run for it. The guy yelled again, but Fulton was at the back of the alley, trying to climb up the pile of garbage there over the fence. He felt a strong tug pulling him back.   
  
"Look, it was an accident!" He blurted out. Bombay looked at him with a slight smile.  
  
"Never mind about the window, where'd you learn to shoot like that?"  
  
"Nobody taught me, I just do it." Every instinct was screaming at him to get out of there, so Fulton started to walk back to the front of the alley.   
  
"Do it again." Bombay requested. Fulton sighed and lined up another shot. This one smashed in a back window. Bombay looked faintly amused. "Do you ever get it in the goal?"  
  
"One in five." Fulton replied guardedly.  
  
"Fulton, is it true what they say?" Bombay asked, "About the football scholarships and how they won't let you play hockey?"  
  
Fulton shrugged, resting his hands on the top of his stick, and replied. "People talk. Don't mean nothing."  
  
"Why don't you play with us?" The coach demanded. Fulton avoided his eyes.   
  
"I can't."  
  
"Why not?" Bombay persisted, "Are you afraid?"  
  
Anger flared up in Fulton's eyes. What right did this guy, who didn't even know the slightest thing about him but his name, have to judge whether Fulton was afraid or not? "No, you moron, I really can't! I don't know how to skate!" That anger flowed through into his shot, the one that finally connected and sailed into the steamer trunk, this time with such force that the battered piece of luggage was knocked backwards.  
  
"Is that all that's holding you back?"  
  
*-*-*-*  
  
There was more than that holding Fulton back. But he remembered what Haley had said. 'You should. Care, I mean.' And he realized that he really did care about these people. Once he did that, there was no turning away.   
  
Someone needed him. /People/ needed him. He couldn't let them down, too. He'd spent too much of his life helpless and afraid, and he didn't want to do it anymore. Fulton Reed was redeemed.  
  
~~End~~ 


End file.
